


True North

by thirty2flavors



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, F/M, borderlands 3 compliant (ish), past relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-27 11:49:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18738415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirty2flavors/pseuds/thirty2flavors
Summary: “They’re killing everyone, Sash. Not only soldiers, but employees, civilians—Maliwan doesn’t differentiate. A lot of people are dying. Because of me. Again.”Sasha doesn’t know what to say to that. That’s okay; Rhys wouldn’t either.





	True North

**Author's Note:**

> Me? Writing BL3-focused fic based on, like, ten minutes of gameplay and [an interview](https://bloody-disgusting.com/interviews/3558836/interview-gearbox-softwares-randy-varnell-discusses-borderlands-3-story-returning-characters-making-memorable-villain/)? It's more likely than you think. Borderlands 3 spoilers, technically, but only for stuff they've already released themselves. 
> 
> I tried not to -- I don't usually like writing fic for canon before we get it -- but this wouldn't leave me alone. Some details in here are intentionally vague. We'll see how it holds up in September, eh?

From inside the small bunker room Rhys has lately called home, you can’t hear the war outside.

It’s nice. Mostly. A little bit eerie, maybe, to know that elsewhere around Promethea, Maliwan is tearing through Atlas’ defenses like tissue paper, and yet here in the safe room there’s only silence. It’s easy to imagine the sound of elemental bullet-fire echoing against the concrete walls. He always tries not to, and always does it anyways.

He reaches up to loosen his tie only to remember he already did that hours ago. Now it’s just hanging sloppily around his neck, a metaphor he doesn’t want to finish. He shrugs off his vest, tosses it over the desk in the corner, and massages both temples. There’s a pile of work—real, actual work—waiting somewhere in his inbox, but it’s hard to focus on the end of the fiscal quarter when there are people bombing his buildings. 

Corporate warfare really puts things in perspective. Even stock prices.

He considers the bed instead. It’s not as nice or as plush as the bed in his real apartment, but he hasn’t been doing a hell of a lot of sleeping lately, so comfort is probably a moot point. Still, he allows himself a wistful, whiny moment of longing for his king size bed and its beautiful lumbar support before he flops himself down on the single. Could be worse, he reasons. Could be a curved booth shared with three other people.

He rides that train of thought out of the station, way past “mistake”, all the way down the line to “total idiot”, where he finds himself sitting up, back to the wall, cybernetic palm turned up, placing a call he’s bound to regret. The line rings for so long he has a brief moment to grapple with the concept of divine intervention, and he’s just about to close his hand and give up when—

“Stupid—how does—” There’s a rustle of confusion on the other end of the line, like the microphone’s being jostled. “Hello? Is this thing working?”

There’s no picture—just a blue haze projected from his palm—but the voice is crystal clear. 

He smiles. “Hey, Sash.”

“Oh. Rhys. Good,” says Sasha, and Rhys’ smile gets wider. “This thing never rings, thought it was a telemarketer or something—”

“A telemarketer? Sasha, it’s a private line—”

“—and isn’t there supposed to be picture? There’s no picture. This thing’s not working. I think it’s broken.”

More rustling down the line. Rhys pictures her shaking the comm up and down and winces. “Of course it still works. Did you turn it on like I showed you?”

“Picked up, didn’t I?”

“There’s a button on the side—the camera and projector—”

“ _Obviously_ , I’m not an idiot—”

“A green light comes on if—”

“I’m telling you,” says Sasha, irritated now, “it’s…”

All at once, a tiny hologram of Sasha replaces the blue haze hovering over his palm. Her pixelated eyes widen in shock, and Rhys laughs.

“...broken,” holo-Sasha finishes lamely. She folds her arms. “Okay, fine, maybe it is still working.”

“Of course it works,” he boasts, “it’s Atlas.”

Sasha doesn’t look impressed, even though she should be. Instead, she looks horror-struck. “Oh my god.” Her eyes narrow like she’s hunting down prey. “What the hell did you do to your face?”

He’s tired enough that confusion and alarm get mingled in his brain, and he touches his cheeks experimentally. “What? What’s happening? Am I bleeding? I… oh.” He glares. “What, the mustache?”

Sasha says nothing. Her look says _no shit_. 

He rolls his eyes. He frames his mustache with his free hand and her lip curls. “Come on, it looks cool.”

“It doesn’t.”

“It does,” he insists, lifting his chin higher. “It looks dignified and awesome. Besides, the people love it.”

One skeptical eyebrow creeps up Sasha’s forehead. “You know they’re probably just making fun of you, right?”

Rhys sniffs. “I said they loved it, I... didn’t specify why.”

That makes Sasha crack up. He grins back at her immediately, because even if she’s totally wrong about his super manly mustache, Sasha’s laugh is still one of the most pleasant sounds in the universe, and it’s been a long time since he heard it. 

Too long, probably. He should call more often. It’s just… 

Sasha’s snickering dies out, and his grin dims, quick as it came. In the second of awful silence that follows, Rhys remembers why they don’t do this more.

“How’s it going with Maliwan?” she asks, mercifully cutting the silence short. 

“Oh, you know,” Rhys starts, breezy as usual. “Same old.”

It’s so easy to lie: Sasha has no point of reference, can’t even see that he’s not in his own bed. He can give her the PR spiel or any of the half-truths that trickle through Atlas in the name of preserving morale. Maliwan’s interest is flattery. For Atlas to be considered a threat so early in its new life is a sign they’re doing everything right. It means they’ve got enviable assets and talent, and that’s all the more reason to stand their ground. 

He opens his mouth to say exactly that. To preserve some scrap of dignity. But then Sasha knits her brow in doubt, and what comes out instead is—

“They’re crushing us. We lose ground every day. Turns out it’s, like, super easy to win a war if you’ve got an endless supply of manpower and you don’t care how many of them die or who they kill.” He offers as much of a grin as he can muster. “Who knew, right?”

Sasha frowns. “Rhys, I…” She thinks about it for a second, and then shakes her head. “I heard it was getting heated. I didn’t realize.”

“Yeah, hey, well, you know how they say ‘all press is good press’? Hopefully that applies to getting killed by the competition. Literally.”

Sasha doesn’t laugh at the joke—a shame, because now that he’s heard it once, he’s eager to hear it again. 

“Are you safe?” she asks.

“Yeah,” he says, and when she crosses her arms in doubt he nods more fervently. “I am! I mean, considering. I’ve got personal guards now!” He nods towards the door, even though Sasha can’t see it, let alone the guards on the other side. “Which is very cool and not at all invasive.”

Sasha’s not convinced. Her frown deepens. “Are you okay?” 

_Of course_ , he means to say, but the words get stuck. He didn’t call her just to lie, and besides—Sasha knows him too well to buy his bullshit anyway. So he sighs, and exercises the long-atrophied muscle of truth.

“They’re killing everyone, Sash. Not only soldiers, but employees, civilians—Maliwan doesn’t differentiate. A lot of people are dying. Because of me. Again.”

Sasha doesn’t know what to say to that. That’s okay; Rhys wouldn’t either. 

“We’re doing what we can, but it’s not enough. I…” He hesitates for a moment, but Sasha’s gaze is steady and kind, and he crumbles in the face of it just like he always has. “I don’t know what to do. More people get hurt every day. How long can I let that continue before it’s my fault?”

Even through the hologram Rhys can see lines form on her forehead as she thinks it over. “What happens if you surrender?”

The forbidden S-word pools in his stomach, icy and heavy. Most of the time, losing Atlas is unthinkable. It’s his life’s work, his baby, the one thing he’s been able to salvage and keep from the wreckage he’d made of his own life when he signed his Hyperion letter of offer. 

But there are families around Meridia being shattered. Across Promethea, little kids stare down the barrel of a childhood like Sasha and Fiona’s. Knowing he plays any role in that keeps Rhys awake at night.

“I’m not sure,” he says honestly. “Maliwan might just want our assets. A merger.” He can’t help but sneer. “But I don’t know what Maliwan control means for people on Promethea. And it’s not only Maliwan. They’re working with the ‘Children of the Vault’ now, and who knows what they’re really after—”

“Those EchoNet weirdos?” Sasha sputters. “Okay, well, that’s… unexpected.”

“Tell me about it.” They share a short smile, and then Rhys sighs. “What do I do, Sasha? What’s the right thing to do? I don’t want to be...”

There’s no need to finish the sentence, so he doesn’t. The projection of Sasha pulls her lips together, wrestling with sympathy and irritation. 

“Is _that_ why you called me?” she asks, irritation taking the lead. “To solve your ethical dilemma?”

“Well…” He runs a nervous hand through his hair and shrugs apologetically. “Your moral compass works a lot better than mine does.”

“Rhys…” She sighs, and her compassion wins out. “This power you’ve got now? The kinds of choices that come with it?” She shakes her head, and he gets a better view of her unfamiliar hairstyle, the long dreadlocks she’s tied into a bun. “I’ve never wanted either of those things.”

“I know.” He manages a fond smile. “That’s what makes you the better person.” 

“It’s not my choice to make, Rhys,” she says gently. 

“Yeah.” He slumps against the wall. “You’re right. Like always.”

Sasha’s lips twitch, a shadow of a smile, and Rhys imagines some extra colour in her cheeks that he can’t see. The image fidelity of the hologram is the best in the business, but it’s still a poor substitute for the real thing. He wishes he could see the green in her eyes, the warm hue of her skin, but there are only shades of godforsaken blue. 

Better than nothing. Not nearly enough. 

She carries on, determined now. “If you want my help fighting—”

Panic breaks Rhys out of his slouch. “What?”

“—it’ll take me some time to get there, but—”

“Wh—Sasha—”

“Oh, don’t look so shocked,” she chides, waving one hand. “I haven’t gone totally soft. Bet I’m still a better shot than half your people.”

“That’s—that’s not—”

“They’ve got shooting ranges here,” she continues, misunderstanding his horror. “And they have these classes where you can fight people, but like, for fun? The inner planets are weird. But anyway, I—”

“Sasha, whoa.” He lifts his left hand to try and slow her down. “I don’t want you coming here. Are you crazy? It’s dangerous. It’s a warzone. Literally.”

Sasha only rolls her eyes. “All of Pandora’s a warzone. I can handle myself.”

“No. I don’t want you here.” It comes out harsh, but he needs her to understand. “I don’t want any of you here. I want you safe.” 

“Well, it sounds like you need the help—”

“I need you safe.” His voice cracks on it. “Please, Sasha.”

She wants to argue—he knows she does—but all she does is sigh again.

He clears his throat, trying to save the conversation with some optimism. “We—we’ve got help, anyway. A bunch of vault hunters just arrived.”

It works. “Vault hunters?”

“Yeah! There’s—uh—an old guy, and… someone with pets…”

Sasha’s brow furrows.

“And a siren!” he adds quickly. “We’ve got a siren! So… suck it, Maliwan.” He pauses and rubs the back of his neck. “Although... technically they’ve got a siren too. But…”

“Siren, huh?” For once, Sasha seems impressed. “She good looking?”

“Come on, I’m a professional,” he insists, hand pressed to his chest. But then he grins. “Why? You jealous?”

Sasha snorts. “Uh, yeah, of you.” A beat. “So, is she?”

“Nuh-uh. Not answering that.” Rhys shakes his head resolutely. “Feels like if I do she’ll hear me somehow and crush me with her magic.” 

“So that’s a yes.” Sasha flashes a cheeky grin, and Rhys temporarily forgets what anyone else in the universe even looks like anyway. “Fine, I’ll stay out of it. Just remember: if you die, I call dibs on all your stuff.”

“Yeah, sorry, but I’m pretty sure if I die you’ll have to wrestle Katagawa for it.” 

“Whatever,” says Sasha breezily, “I could take that twerp.” 

“If I die, please do.” He shudders at the notion. “I bet he’d try on all my clothes.”

“He can keep those, I don’t want ‘em.” 

“Yeah right,” Rhys insists, “if I’m dead, you’d need something to hang in your closet in memoriam and wear occasionally when grief overcame you.”

“Nuh-uh. Not unless your fashion sense has drastically improved since I left.”

Her eyes widen with regret the second she says it, and Rhys stares down at his lap, rubbing his cheek with his hand. Even now, talking to Sasha is so easy that he sometimes forgets to watch for the elephant in the room until one of them trips over it. 

“How’s Dionysus?” he asks, before Sasha can salt any wounds with an awkward apology.

“It’s good!” she says, almost believable. She avoids his eyes as she says it, her smile stiff. “It’s nice. It’s… peaceful.”

For a gifted liar, she’s not very convincing. 

“But?” he prompts.

Sasha shrugs. “It’s just different, is all. People are different. Everyone has all these reference points I don’t know, experiences I’ve never had.” She’s still looking down, fiddling with something out of sight of the hologram. “Tell someone you’re from Pandora, and either they’re surprised you’re literate or they tell you how they donate to some scam charity that claims it ‘sponsors Pandoran orphans’.” Her lip curls, but when she looks up she puts on a tight smile again. “So I’ve stopped telling them. Say I’m from Eden 5 now.” Her smile turns apologetic. “I, uh, may have cribbed some of your childhood stories. Sorry.” She winks. “Dangers of opening up to a recovering con artist.”

She’s doing her best to keep it light, but Rhys knows her too well to be fooled even by a hologram. Dionysus is meant to be Sasha’s dream; playing a role every day was never part of the package.

His heart aches for her. “Sasha—”

“It’s fine,” she says quickly, even though it’s not. “I never wanted to be Pandoran anyway, right? So… bye-bye, Hollow Point.”

“You shouldn’t have to lie, Sash,” he says gently. 

“Yeah, well…” Sasha’s answering smile is soft and sad. “Nothing ever turns out quite like you wanted it to, right?”

 _You never had to lie to me_ , he thinks of saying, suddenly and traitorously. _Come back_. 

But he holds his tongue. Reminds himself he doesn’t really want her here right now anyway. Promethea’s dangerous, and he wants her safe.

“No,” he agrees, “it doesn’t.”

There’s that silence again. He feels it like a weight on his chest. 

When Sasha speaks again, her voice is quiet. “Why did you call me, Rhys?” 

“What, I’m not allowed to call?”

“You’re allowed,” she says. “You never do.”

“Neither do you,” he counters, sharp, “and you’re the one who left.” But when guilt passes over her face he sighs. “Sorry. I just…” He casts around for a better explanation, and when he finds none, he settles for the truth. “I guess I kind of missed you.”

He thinks she might be angry at that, but instead her whole face softens, open and honest and—

God, Maliwan be damned, he wishes she were really here.

“I kind of missed you too.” There’s a wobble in her voice, just below the surface. She glances away, watches something he can’t see, something just out of frame in the life she’s built without him. “I should go. I have to get to the radio station, my shift starts in an hour.” 

“‘Course.” Rhys’ throat feels tight, but he ignores it. “Break a leg.”

“Always.” She nibbles on her lip. “It was good to talk to you. Maybe…” She hesitates, gathering courage. “Maybe once you’re done with all this Maliwan stuff you could take some time off. Take a vacation.”

“Yeah? You got any suggestions?”

Sasha lifts one shoulder, a misleadingly innocent tone in her voice. “I’ve heard the beaches on Dionysus are pretty nice.” 

“That right?” Sitting here in a safe room, with Maliwan eating away at Atlas’ forces and endless rebuilding to do, it’s a far-away fantasy, but one he’s happy to indulge in. “I’ve heard the girls are sexy, too.”

Sasha’s grin turns coy. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Atlas. You’ve still got a war to win.” 

Rhys grins. “Guess I’d better get back to it, then.”

“Mmhmm. And don’t die, because I really don’t want to have to go all the way to Promethea to avenge you.”

“I’ll do my best.” He lifts his hand, wiggles his pinky in the empty air. “Promise.”

Sasha raises her hand to do the same, smiling so vibrantly that he’s grateful she’s a hologram, because if she were here the desire to kiss her would be maddening. 

“I hope so,” she tells him, solid as ever. “That vacation’s going on your card, Richie Rich.”

He salutes her with two fingers off the port at his temple. “Get to work, DJ Rakk Attack. I’ll talk to you later.” 

“Take care of yourself, Rhys.” 

With one last, bright smile, Sasha ends the call, and there’s nothing left but quiet and the blue static from his palm. 

Already loose, his tie slips off easily, and he tosses it aside. His shoes clatter onto the concrete as he kicks them off. He curls his hand into a fist to shut off the projector. In the darkness that follows, the tiny safe room feels cavernously empty, and Rhys feels terribly alone. 

He thinks again of the caravan, how difficult sleeping had been with so many people in such little space, with such constant chatter and excitement. Settling down on the single bed, he drifts off imagining Dionysian beaches and a warm hand in his.

**Author's Note:**

> say hi on Tumblr over at [oodlyenough](https://oodlyenough.tumblr.com/post/184701734668/fic-true-north)
> 
> And for anyone wondering: I definitely haven't abandoned Anachronism, it's my baby. But I had to get this one out of my system first.


End file.
